Wings of Daedalus
by Nina Stephens
Summary: Story updated as of December 3rd with Chapter 8. More in progress!
1. Wings of Daedalus Ch 1

**Wings of Daedalus**

_by Nina Stephens_

Could it be,

Have I really lost my way?

Have I lost my mind,

Will I lose the day?

Look at me and say,

Where it all went wrong,

This has been my dream,

My whole life long.

Those who dare to try,

Those who want to fly will find a way."

_"No One Must Ever Know" _from the musical_ Jekyll & Hyde_

Book and lyrics by Leslie Bricusse

**Chapter One**

A baseball, its stitched leather hide scuffed and well worn, soared against the crisp blue sky. Beneath its high arc, prisoners craned their necks to watch dejectedly as it sailed over the triple strands of barbed wire ringing their compound.

"Well, gents, there goes the end to another ruddy ball game," muttered a dark-haired RAF corporal, helplessly watching the ball land with a thump well outside the camp's perimeter.

"Funny, I don't remember hearing any fat lady sing," chuckled an American colonel, a mock look of surprise spreading across his handsome face. The men trotted up to where he stood leaning against the outside of the recreation hall. The senior officer slipped his arm around the shoulders of a short Frenchman next to him in a consoling gesture.

"Eh. Very funny, Colonel Hogan," the corporal retorted. "Although, right now even a fat lady would be trés irresistible. You can't keep a Frenchman away from les femmes for over two years and expect him to maintain his usual high standards." He folded his arms, sticking out his lower lip in a pout.

Hogan grinned, playfully pulling LeBeau's red beret down over the corporal's swarthy face. His smile quickly disappeared, however, when he spotted Kinchloe, the American communicator for their group, hurrying toward him at a rapid clip from their barracks. Kinch, as the other prisoners called him, had a serious look on his face. Hogan quickly hoped that his haste meant orders from London had finally arrived, and he stepped away from the building to approach the black staff sergeant.

Things had been slow lately for the commander of the elite team of combined military personnel who conducted their clandestine intelligence activities behind enemy lines. They operated under the unusual cover of a prisoner-of-war camp in northwestern Germany, near the town of Hammelburg. The break in their typically hectic pace was a welcome one, but after a few weeks of dulling inactivity Hogan found himself itching to get back into action.

He'd volunteered for the challenging assignment principally because of his distaste for the administrative burden of more ordinary commands. But this one definitely came with small print in the contract, including the requirement that he allow himself to be shot down and then taken prisoner. And that was just for starters. However, he had to admit he'd never regretted the decision to take the position.

For two years he'd served as flight commander of the 504th Bomb Group when General Fitzhugh, head of a joint military intelligence command, approached him to establish a special operations group behind enemy lines in Germany. Hogan had been with the all-volunteer team at LuftStalag 13 for almost three years now, longer than even his command of the 504th, but he still hadn't tired of the duty. Their mission to hinder the German war effort via acts of sabotage, as well as exfiltrating downed fliers, was incredibly rewarding. Hogan was proud of the skills and accomplishments of his tight band of men. They'd been extraordinarily successful in duping the Germans and were sustained by knowing their efforts were bringing the war closer to a victorious end for the Allies.

Hogan looked around to see if any guards were looking, as Kinch handed him the slip of blue notepaper. He unfolded the note, a broad smile lighting his face.

"What's up, Colonel?" asked Carter, sidling next to Hogan.

The American enlisted man hoped an impending mission might require his skills as the team's explosives expert. The former drug-store chemist still seemed very much a small-town boy, but his assignment to Hogan's team had allowed him to experience thrills he never imagined while filling prescriptions back home in Bull Frog, North Dakota.

"Carter, m'boy, our contract's been renewed," Hogan said with his characteristic grin, "and for a signing bonus London is going to let us take out a railroad bridge."

"Where, mon Colonel?" asked LeBeau.

"The one just south of town, over the Rhine."

"Gee, Colonel, that's a pretty big span."

"About as big as they come," Hogan mused. "All I know is we've got to scramble to get this done. There's a train carrying a critical shipment of spare tank parts for the Wehrmacht that will come through there in two nights. With any luck they'll never make it."

He turned to Carter. "You'll need to ready about three dozen packs of explosives and timing devices to go along with them."

"You got it, boy! I mean, Colonel." Carter beamed, delighted to be back in action again.

"Good. Kinch, radio London and confirm we'll proceed as ordered. The rest of you, thanks for volunteering to go out tonight."

"Volunteer!" exclaimed LeBeau. "I didn't say anything about volunteering."

"Sure you did," insisted Hogan. "Besides, what else are you going to do in your spare time?"

"Maybe he could practice his swing," Newkirk said smugly.

"Yeah," Carter added with an exasperated huff. "Any more foul balls like that one and we'll be asking London to parachute in a batting coach."

Hogan chuckled, giving a friendly push to Carter's back, as he followed him into Barracks Two.

**Continued in Chapter Two**


	2. Wings of Daedalus Ch 2

**Chapter Two**

The sound of shuffling feet entering the barracks made Hogan glance anxiously at his watch and stand quickly from his desk, the cold cup of coffee he held only half-finished.  He strode to the door to his private room and threw it open, stepping into the common barracks area. 

"Hey, it's about time.  What kept--?" Hogan chided amiably, suddenly bringing himself up short. 

The scene made his spirits sink.  A straggling parade of weary, filthy prisoners hobbled in, barely able to drag themselves to their respective bunks where they collapsed with a chorus of groans. 

Hogan surveyed his team with dismay.  Struggling with the effort, Carter sat on the edge of his bunk and slowly removed his dust-covered boots, the holes in his socks revealing several blisters just waiting to burst.  LeBeau lay in his bunk, one arm draped over the edge, as his hand flopped against the floor.  His eyes were already closed and mouth agape for the beginning of a deep snoring session.  Kinch had begun to pour himself a cup of coffee, but then changed his mind and wearily set the pot back on the wood stove.  He knew he wouldn't remain awake long enough to get more than two swallows down.  He now appeared to be asleep on his feet, leaning against a nearby bunk post.  Newkirk was stretched out atop a wooden table in the center of the room.  Too exhausted to climb into his upper berth, he'd opted to collapse across the table and was half-asleep, still fully clothed. 

"For cryin' out loud, what did they have you guys doing out there?  Klink said the work detail was going to be light duty picking up litter in town." 

Carter turned a grimy face toward his commanding officer.  "Oh, it was, sir.  At least, that's how it started out."  He rubbed the side of his cheek, the streaks of dirt smudging together. 

"It was until the ruddy efficiency expert from Berlin showed up, sir."  Newkirk slipped off his garrison cap and laid it over his chest, folding his hands on top as though waiting only for a lily to be placed between his clasped fingers to complete the funereal scene. 

Having finally collapsed into his bunk, Kinch turned his head and opened one eye.  "Klink forgot to mention that General Burkhalter was sending someone along to find ways for us to work more productively.  Colonel, did you know that there are at least fifteen different ways to patch holes in a road?  And we're now experts in all of them." 

"I don't think I've ever seen that much gravel before," Carter complained.  That was it, he mentally reproached himself.  As soon as he got back to Bull Frog he was going to get serious about passing that pharmacy exam.  No more hard labor for him. 

The American colonel groaned silently.  There was no way the team would be up to tonight's mission.  They'd gone out the evening before and placed the destructive charges on the trestle, but only hours earlier Hogan had been in the tunnel beneath their barracks when the Morse code hand key burst into activity.  An underground group was signaling Papa Bear that the timed explosion hadn't gone off.  It meant having to return once more to redo the risky job. 

Hogan scowled.  Tonight would be their last chance to disrupt the supply train.  If those engine parts made it to their destination the embattled line of Wehrmacht troops still occupying France would repair their halted tanks and generate a fresh challenge for the advancing Allied ground forces.  That meant more loss of life, and that was something he couldn't accept. 

He mentally cursed Klink.  If the camp Kommandant hadn't forced him to remain behind that morning to go over the latest figures on prisoner transfers he might have been able to intervene with this so-called efficiency expert.  He guiltily surveyed the room wondering how he could possibly ask them to go out again in a few hours.  

Kinch fought to keep one eye open.  He'd been silently watching Hogan and caught the worried look on his commander's face.  Something was up.  He struggled to a sitting position.  

"Uh, oh.  What happened, Colonel?" he asked suspiciously.

Hogan distractedly rubbed his temple.  "That's the problem.  Nothing happened." 

"Eh?"  LeBeau raised his head with effort.  "Qu'est que c'est, mon Colonel?" he muttered wearily. 

Hogan hesitated.  "The bridge didn't blow." 

"Huh?  You sure, Colonel?"  Carter tried to force his weary mind to remember the settings he'd used for the timers.  He was sure he'd gotten them right.  After a previous mission when he'd botched the chance to blow up a passing convoy, he wasn't about to make the same mistake twice. 

Hogan spotted the concern on the enlisted man's face and waved reassuringly.  "Relax, Carter, it wasn't your fault.  The timers were defective.  I checked the ones we had left, and they didn't work either.  Must've gotten a bum shipment with the last supply drop.  And to think I didn't ask for a receipt.  How am I ever going to get London to take them back on exchange?"  Hogan smiled gamely, although it wasn't lost on him that no one else shared in the joke.  They were all too exhausted to even follow what he was saying.

Kinch struggled to swing his legs over the side of his bunk.  The attempt at humor may have passed unnoticed, but not the implications of what had happened.  The failure meant they'd have to go back out again.  He grimaced as he tried to force one swollen foot back into his leather boots, stiffly caked with dried mud. 

The display of dedication touched Hogan.  The soft-spoken radioman was his steadiest man, the one he could always count on when the going got tough or spirits sagged.  Whether conscious of his impact on others or not, the calm resolve of the one-time Golden Gloves champion had slowly matured into a quiet, yet effective, leadership style.  Hogan had made detailed note of those strengths in the write-up he'd sent to London several months ago.  He expected any day now there'd be a surprising announcement coming out of Headquarters as a result.

Hogan held up one hand dismissively.  "Don't bother, Kinch.  You guys deserve a rest after what you went through today.  I can take care of things without you." 

"Gee, Colonel, it's too risky for you to do this one by yourself."  Kinch looked questioningly at his senior officer. 

"I'll be fine, mother.  Besides, you guys did all the hard work last night, setting the charges and running the wires.  All I've got to do is replace a few timers.  A piece of pie, as m'boy Carter here might say." 

Hogan grinned reassuringly at the communicator who was already beginning to settle back against the lumpy mattress. 

"Besides, it'll be nice to take a midnight stroll in the moonlight for a change.  I've been feeling pretty cooped up in this place." 

"Well, okay, Colonel, if you say so," Kinch mumbled, dropping quickly back off to sleep. 

Yep, just a little moonlit stroll, Hogan thought, as he turned toward his barrack room to prepare for the outing, quietly closing the door behind him so as not to disturb his slumbering team of men.  

**Continued in Chapter Three**


	3. Wings of Daedalus Ch 3

**Chapter Three  **

The midnight stroll might have been illuminated in moonlight if the skies hadn't opened up half an hour after Hogan slipped away from Stalag 13.  The torrential downpour had continued unabated while he worked his way across the railway trestle, but at least he was almost done.  He set the final timer in place and re-checked the connections.  This time he was certain it would go.  

Clinging precariously to the wooden support beams he carefully picked his way across the undercarriage of the trestle.  Moments earlier the slippery going had almost caused him to lose his grip, but he'd somehow managed to hang on until he'd found another foothold.  The plunge to the noisy river rushing below would not have been an enjoyable ride, he thought grimly, as he finally hopped from the wooden framework to the safety of an earthen bank at one end of the span.  

He silently surveyed the swollen channel far below before peeling back one cuff of his waterlogged black sweater to check the time.  The rain ran in currents down his face, and in a rare wasted motion he wiped ineffectively at his brow, hoping to stem the flow long enough to be able to read the dial.  _Wish I coulda worn my flight cap instead of this black knit one_, he mused ruefully.  _At least the visor would have shielded my eyes from this blasted rain._  Straining to see the tiny luminescent dots, the hands finally came into focus, indicating ten minutes after two.  Another twenty minutes before it blew, he figured with satisfaction.  Long enough for him to be well on his way back to base.

Just then a brilliant flash of lightning emblazoned the sky, making the landscape as bright as midday.  The flash was immediately followed by a crash of thunder so loud as to shake the earth beneath his feet.  He never stood a chance of hearing the patrol's footsteps.  It was as much the evil glee in the sneering voice as the pistol's steel barrel being pressed into his spine that caused Hogan to suddenly freeze in place. 

"Well, well, what have we here?  Turn around.  Slowly," barked the voice in German. 

Carefully raising his hands, Hogan turned to confront a young blond captain flanked by a Wehrmacht patrol.  He forced a broad grin in return. 

"I'm just admiring the view, Herr Hauptmann," Hogan replied in German.  "Such a lovely evening, wouldn't you say?" 

The wisecrack earned him a blow across his temple with the pistol, sending a warm stream of what he assumed was blood suddenly mixing with the rain that ran down his face.  Hands still held high, he silently glared at the officer. 

The German's eyes strayed to the front of Hogan's black sweater, clinging to him wetly.  An outline of an object hanging from his neck was visible in the beam of the flashlights that played across his torso.  The captain roughly thrust his hand inside the neck of Hogan's sweater and pulled sharply on the chain around his neck.  A pair of dog tags dangled from the broken metal links.

"An American, eh?  Such insolence from someone in your position is not advisable."  

He held them higher, signaling for a nearby soldier to aim his flashlight where they hung.  The captain's blue eyes widened in surprise, and he turned back gloatingly to his prisoner.

"Such a catch is quite unexpected, Colonel."

Rain cascaded down Hogan's upstretched arms, forming a rivulet along his spine and creating a chilled pool at the small of his back that forced Hogan to involuntarily shiver.  He gritted his teeth in annoyance, knowing that the German officer assumed the reaction was from fear.  

Inwardly Hogan chastised himself.  He'd forgotten to take off his dog tags before leaving camp.  Ordinarily he removed them, although London had ordered all of them to wear the tags, naively banking on their protection under the Geneva Convention in the event they were captured during a mission.  But Hogan realized it wouldn't matter, particularly if found with German documents or explosives in their possession.  Under those conditions, they weren't likely to receive any special treatment at all.

Hogan had subsequently decided that if he were going to be caught in the act he'd just as soon leave Stalag 13 out of it.  He would, if needed, die with that secret rather than divulge their operation.  Only now, the imprint of his name and rank dangled there in front of him.  It would be only a matter of hours for the captain to confirm via telephone his official status of internment in a nearby POW camp.

"Where are the rest of your men?  I'm sure you didn't parachute in alone.  Where is the team of saboteurs who accompanied you?  You realize since you are out of uniform I can shoot you all as spies.  Of course, if you order your men to give themselves up we will certainly honor the Geneva convention for our fellow soldiers."  The captain smiled falsely.

_Yeah, right, Kraut-face, I'll just bet I can count on that._  However, he quickly seized on the realization the Wehrmacht officer assumed he was part of a special operations team that had just parachuted into the area.  If he could use that misconception to his advantage, it might afford his men the time they would need.  Once they discovered he hadn't returned and was captured, they could begin to shut the operation down in time to escape before Blondie and his men showed up at the gates.

Hogan turned his head slowly, wiping at the corner of his left eye where the blood was making it difficult for him to see clearly.  It didn't pass his notice that the captain tensed slightly as he made the movement.  He was sharp and on edge, and Hogan knew it would be a challenge to get away from someone like that.

"Come, now, Herr Hauptmann, my men are highly trained.  They scattered as soon as they reached the ground.  You'll have your hands full trying to round them all up, probably be out in this weather all night before you find even half of them."

Hogan clucked sympathetically, noting the officer in front of him was now as thoroughly soaked as he was and beginning to look much less polished as a result.  He glanced down at the man's glistening brown boots, rising snugly over the top of his calves.

"Tsk, tsk, such a shame.  Those handsome boots are going to be covered in mud come morning.  Bet it will take you a week to get them cleaned up.  Sure hope you don't have any inspections coming up before then, Herr Hauptmann.  You might as well kiss that weekend pass goodbye right now."

The captain was indeed feeling the effects of the weather and didn't need much provocation.  Despite his glee at finding what he presumed was a good catch, he would much rather be questioning the American in a warm, dry office than out in the cold rain.  His lips narrowed to a thin line, as he signaled to a soldier standing behind Hogan to raise his rifle butt and bring it down sharply between his shoulder blades.

Hogan dropped to his knees and gasped with the paralyzing pain that ran through his upper body.  A well-placed kick to his head followed.  Hogan collapsed to the ground, his ears ringing.  Another set of blows specifically targeting his more vulnerable areas added more agony than he would have thought possible.  The surrounding pack of soldiers joined in, equally eager to vent their frustration at being out in the downpour.  Hogan tried vainly to block the onslaught but soon had to conserve his energy just to maintain consciousness.  He writhed helplessly in the mud, as blood poured from his nose and the cut at his temple, mixing with the coating of wet earth that now covered him.

The captain raised a hand to halt the attack.  Two soldiers begrudgingly reached down to grab Hogan under his shoulders and roughly haul him to his feet.  The pain made it difficult to stand upright, and Hogan wobbled, as he bent over, his forearms on his thighs.

"Tie him up," the officer barked.  "We will continue this back in town."  

He turned to a sergeant flanking him.  "Take half the men and fan out.  I want the others found before daybreak."

"Ja, Herr Hauptman."  The enlisted man grumbled inwardly.  He was hoping to be among those heading back to town and the chance to dry off.  His expression did not escape the captain's notice.

"The sooner you find them, the sooner you, too, can change into a dry uniform.  Now get to it, Sergeant."

"Jawohl, mein Herr."  The sergeant snapped off a salute, not wanting to aggravate his superior further, and turned to the group of men who would accompany him.

The captain turned back to Hogan.  His arms had been forced behind him and were being tightly bound at the wrists.  The final knot in place, the rope was jerked upward, straining Hogan's shoulders in their sockets and causing him to squirm in pain.  Satisfied the knots would hold, the corporal nodded to the captain and jabbed Hogan in the back with his rifle.  

Hogan stumbled forward, struggling to keep his balance.  The soldier at the other end of the rope jerked it cruelly in compensation.  The pain it caused was excruciating, and Hogan closed his eyes, biting his lip to keep from crying out.

The captain grinned evilly.  "That is just the beginning, Colonel Hogan.  You have much more to look forward to once we arrive at our headquarters."

Hogan wearily glanced over one shoulder and caught a glimpse of a sergeant leading a team of men across the railway bridge, intending to begin their search on the other side.  He wondered how much time remained on the charges and figured they probably wouldn't make it across.  His estimate was right.  They progressed only another 20 meters before the sky lit up in a strange fiery glow, accompanied by a deafening sound.  The shock wave hit them next, toppling all of them to the ground like a tsunami.  

Hogan knew this was his only chance.  The others, still stunned, lay scattered around him.  The loud death rattle of the wooden bridge covered Hogan's grunts as he struggled to his knees.  His hands still trussed behind him, he somehow got to his feet, at first walking and then running into the nearby woods.  

Seconds later the creaks and groans of the bridge's demise quieted into fainter echoes.  A thick layer of pine needles now crunched beneath his feet.  Soaked by the rain, they were as slippery as shifting sand, making his footing treacherous.  Over the rasping sound of his labored breathing, Hogan could clearly hear the crack of rifle shots.  He raced forward, fighting to keep his balance in the wet leaves and uneven terrain, the loss of the use of his arms making it more difficult to remain upright.

The shards of a branch shattering next to him suddenly stung Hogan's face, the wood splintering as a bullet just missed his head.  Flashlight beams jerked crazily against the outlines of trees before him as he dodged and wove among them, hoping they might provide some cover.  Bullets continued to violently tear leaves and snap twigs from the branches surrounding him.  

They were gaining, their nearness forcing him to hurry his pace despite feeling he was already at his limit.  He could see a break in the tree line before him and realized he was reaching the edge of an embankment that flanked the noisy river below. Glancing behind, his poor footing caused him to collide roughly with a thick trunk, throwing him sharply off balance.  Hogan spun sideways, struggling wildly as he lurched backwards.  The blond captain broke through the trees and began to advance on him, showing with a derisive laugh that he knew his prey was cornered.

Hogan desperately looked to either side.  He could tell from the faintly muffled sound of the roaring river below that the embankment rose some distance above it.  There was no route of escape.  Another step backwards found the wet earth unexpectedly crumbling beneath his feet.  Hogan looked up in shock at the advancing German officer; the enemy's face mirrored the same look of surprise.

Hogan's body contorted, as he fought to find solid footing at the edge of the steep embankment.  His eyes pleaded with the German to help him, but his reflexes weren't fast enough.  The captain watched impotently, as the edge gave way beneath him, and Hogan suddenly pitched backwards into the black abyss.  

The German grabbed a flashlight from a breathless soldier who had just arrived and tried to follow the series of crashes that echoed from below.  Hogan's body tumbled downward, colliding into jutting rocks and reedy saplings along the face of the steep precipice.  The sounds grew fainter and then finally stopped.  Dumbfounded, the captain stood in stunned silence, the only sound the rasping of his breath as he recuperated from the chase.  Other men soon arrived at the edge of the embankment, and he ordered them to play their flashlights down below.  A trail of partially broken trees continued out of sight, obscuring their view of the river.  

Cursing, the captain turned away from the embankment.  He'd hoped to gain more information from the American before finishing him off.  Losing the prisoner and the information he possessed, along with his failure to prevent the sabotage of a strategic bridge would not bode well with his superiors.  His hopes of promotion and accolades for the capture were as fleeting as the American's sudden plunge into the inky void.  He stomped back into the woods, suddenly remembering the dog tags still in his pocket.  At least he had some proof of the capture.  Maybe things weren't so bad after all, he pondered.  A hopeful smile played across his face.  

***

Snapped branches traced a crooked line of exodus from the cliff.  The stillness of the night was replaced with the sound of an angry river rushing downstream.  A clap of thunder rose above the constant roar on the heels of a lightning flash.  A thin strip of ground was illuminated at the base of the precipice where water swelled against its narrow banks, revealing a dark irregular shape.  Hogan lay motionless on his back, his body twisted in an odd position.  Rain fell in torrents, pelting his bruised and torn face, the sky descending as though there was no longer any separation between it and the ground.  

***

Newkirk grumbled, as another drop splashed on his cheek.  He shifted his position in the top bunk once more.  He had half a mind to get up and try to patch the leaky roof overhead.  One more drip and that was it, he decided.  The next splatter came just as he was drifting off to sleep.  _Oh bugger, why bother._  It was a losing battle, and he knew it.  Stretching out from under his blanket, he reached for a waterproof poncho hanging on a nearby nail and drew it over his head.  A final shift of his legs, and he grew still once more, fading to an uneasy, dreamless sleep.

**Continued in Chapter Four**


	4. Wings of Daedalus Ch 4

**Chapter Four**

LeBeau shifted the hot mug of coffee to his other hand to knock at the door to Hogan's room.  A second knock and still no answer.  Shrugging, he cracked the door open and called in, expecting he was going to catch hell for rousing a very tired senior officer.  No response.  Puzzled, LeBeau swung the door back.  His anxiety grew by the moment as he realized he was looking at an empty bunk.  He whirled about, spilling half the coffee on the floor, and turned to his barrack mates, most still in the act of pulling on uniforms.

"Mon dieu, le Colonel is not here!"

"What?!" exclaimed Kinch.  He rushed to Hogan's room.

"Oui, I checked the top bunk, too," protested LeBeau.  "I tell you, he's missing.  Something went wrong last night; I can feel it."  He began a worried stream of French, the others uncertain whether they were petitions or curses.

"Relax, Louis," Newkirk said reassuringly.  "He's probably asleep in the tunnel.  You know him, didn't want to wake us by climbing up the ladder in the middle of the night."

LeBeau momentarily halted his mutterings.

"You think so, Newkirk?" Carter asked, his sense of alarm beginning to rival the Frenchman's.

"Not a doubt, Andrew.  C'mon, you 'n me'll take his coffee to him."  Newkirk finished pulling his turtleneck over his head and took the cup from LeBeau's hand.  "Just wait right here, Louis, you'll see."

Kinch, an uneasy feeling growing in his stomach, stepped aside after hitting the hidden latch on the bunkbed frame to expose the hidden tunnel below.

"Hurry it up, fellas, we've got roll call in just a few minutes."  

He let any further instructions go unsaid.  There was something about this he didn't like one bit.  He knew instinctively that even if Hogan had remained in the tunnel overnight he never would have overslept and risked missing morning formation.  His failure to appear meant something had gone seriously wrong, but Kinch worked to keep his voice sounding light and any inner concerns masked.

Several minutes elapsed before they heard a frantic scrambling up the ladder.  Carter's panicky face popped in view.

"He's not down here!" 

All eyes turned in the opposite direction as the front door to the barracks suddenly was flung open.

"Kraut coming!" yelled a fair-haired private.

Carter momentarily froze in place before being ejected from the tunnel entrance by a vigorous shove from beneath by Newkirk.  The Englishman stumbled over the bunk rails and landed on the floor next to him, as Kinch leapt for the latch mechanism.  The hatch was still sliding in place as a rotund Feldwebel lumbered through the door.  Fortunately, his attention was drawn to the two men sprawled on the floor in the middle of the barracks.  Kinch breathed a silent sigh of relief as Hans Schultz, sergeant of the guard, peered downward, a perpetually baffled look adorning his beefy face.

Newkirk elbowed the American lying next to him.  His hands splayed against the floor, he shakily executed a series of pushups.

"…ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred," he gasped out, collapsing in place as Carter stared at him, eyes wide in amazement.

Still panting for effect, Newkirk counseled his companion.  "See, Carter, nothin' to it.  Just do a few each morning before roll call and before you know it, you can do a hundred at a stretch.  Same with situps."

He quickly rolled over and cupped his hands behind his head.  Raising his upper body, Newkirk waited until his back was fully toward the door then mouthed to Kinch, his eyes wide with worry, "_We looked everywhere_."

"Corporal Newkirk, I had no idea you were such a fitness devotee.  Perhaps you would like to lead the men in calisthenics after morning formation?"

The two men scrambled to their feet as the rest, the German sergeant included, snapped to attention.

A trim, balding Oberst in a long gray overcoat stood stiffly next to the potbellied stove.  One arm was crooked like a bird's wing, a leather crop clasped firmly in its grip.  His head was cocked to one side in patent disbelief, as he fixed a gold-rimmed monocle over his weak left eye.  Skeptically, he surveyed the barracks, noticing the door to Hogan's room remained closed.

"Perhaps your Colonel would be better served to follow your example than sleep in late, hmm?"  

Kommandant Wilhelm Klink marched ceremoniously to the door, rapping sharply before calling out in an exaggerated sing-song, "Oh, Colonel Hogan, would you care to join us for morning formation?"

He raised one brow in annoyance after receiving no response.  Rolling his eyes and sighing for effect, he grabbed for the door handle and threw it open.

"Colonel Hogan, I'm waiting."

The look of irritation slowly gave way to one of confusion, as his head swiveled around to peer inside the clearly vacant private room.  He turned back to the room of still frozen enlisted men, unusual in their marked adherence to the proper military position of attention.  Shoulders hunched forward in calculating suspicion, Klink leisurely strolled past the statue-like prisoners, coming to rest before a jittery Carter.

"Sergeant Carter?"

"Uh, yes, sir, Kommandant, sir?"  He cleared his throat nervously, but it did nothing to ease the edgy squeak in his voice.

"Would you like to tell me where Colonel Hogan is this morning?  Hmm?"  Klink's voice was oily with feigned affability.

Carter looked up at the ceiling, appearing momentarily thoughtful, as he slouched to one side and brought a hand to his chin reflectively.

"Uh, well, sir, maybe he escaped?" he offered helpfully.

Klink drew himself up, barking stonily, "Absolutely no one escapes from this facility, Sergeant!  Is that understood?"

Trembling, Carter resumed his stance of attention and brought his left hand to his eyebrow in salute.

"Oh, of course, sir, Kommandant Klink, sir, yes, Colonel, sir."

The German officer shook his head in exasperation then sauntered further down the line to stop in front of the tall black communicator.  At least he might get a more reasonable response from this POW.

"Sergeant Kinchloe, where is Colonel Hogan?"

Kinch adjusted his gaze to look at the Kommandant.  He started to speak, then halted.  A nervous cough preceded his answer, his voice quavering.

"Colonel Klink, I'll tell you truthfully, I…" Kinch paused, "I wish I knew."

Peering into the somber man's eyes, Klink detected a hint of genuine worry.  Wheeling about, he raised the riding crop, crying out shrilly, "Guards!  Sound the alarm!  Release the dogs!  There has been an escape!"

The Kommandant raced for the door, Sergeant Schultz at his heels.  As the door slammed behind them, all hell broke loose in the barracks.

"Carter, you bloody dolt, why'd you tell him that?!" Newkirk shouted, glaring into the ashen face of his companion.

"C'est trés imbecile!"  LeBeau threw up his hands in disgust.

"Hold it, hold it, guys."  Kinch raised his palms to halt the incipient riot.  "Carter may have just done us a favor."

"Huh?"  Even Carter looked surprised at this declaration.

Kinch walked over slowly, pensive, and clapped a hand on Carter's shoulder in comfort.

"There's no way any of us are getting out of here to go on a search.  Not with Klink sounding the alert and the woods now being combed with guard dogs."

He glanced soberly around the room at the worried faces.

"So, I guess it's up to Kommandant Klink to find Colonel Hogan for us."

Unspoken was what he might find.

**Continued in Chapter Five**


	5. Wings of Daedalus Ch 5

**Chapter Five**

The men, worry and distraction evident on their faces, sat around a table in the middle of their barracks.  Camp had been locked down with all prisoners confined to their quarters, but no one felt like going anywhere anyway.  Kinch had earlier radioed one of the local underground units to confirm the railway trestle had blown the night before.  Colonel Hogan had obviously made it to the bridge, why hadn't he made it back?  Each time a truck was heard entering the compound, a group of POWs raced to the window, their hopes dashed, as they watched the guards pile out empty handed.  The last truck had long ago returned, so no attention was paid when a Wehrmacht staff car rolled through the gate and came to a stop in front of the Kommandant's office.  

***

Klink stared with amazement at the small satin-lined box that sat open before him atop his desk.  He picked up the official military letterhead accompanying the package and reread its contents.  Slowly, the look of wonderment on his face was replaced by one of bitter suspicion.  Had Hogan known this would happen and planned his escape to coincide, counting on the letter to excuse the abandonment of his men?  Klink's eyes narrowed, as he pushed his chair back angrily from the desk and stood up.  He crossed to the window and glared out at the compound, failing to notice the staff car now parked outside the building.  The nerve of Hogan to do this to him.  A sharp knock at the door caused him to wheel about in annoyance.

"Enter," he barked.

The bedraggled appearance of the Wehrmacht officer who entered further piqued his mood.  The man looked as though he had slept in his uniform during a rainstorm.  His cheeks bore a blond stubble and were streaked with dirt.  The leather of his brown boots, darkened from a soaking, creaked as he marched smartly across the floor.

"Hauptmann," Klink acknowledged coolly, nodding his head.  He surveyed the officer standing at attention in front of his desk.  

The young captain clicked his heels and raised his arm in the gesture Klink despised.  "Heil Hitler, Herr Oberst!"

Klink glowered at the young captain and purposely ignored his salute.  He made a show of inspecting him from head to foot, expressing his disapproval with a cluck of his tongue.

"Well, Hauptmann, clearly the Wehrmacht does not instruct its officers to follow the same high standards of dress set by the illustrious Luftwaffe," he remarked acidly.  The young officer shifted uncomfortably, his arm still thrust self-consciously in the air.  He glanced at the colonel and uncertainly lowered his arm to his side.  The critical glare he received caused him to immediately snap his arm forward once more, mistaking the scowl as displeasure for his lapse in protocol.

Klink grimaced.  "Enough, Hauptmann.  Save your strength and explain what is your purpose for gracing my presence here today."

The captain responded, his arm slowly sinking.  "My sincere apologies, Herr Oberst, but I unfortunately spent most of last night out in the rain chasing down one of your prisoners."

Klink's eyes lit up.  "Aha!  Why didn't you say so in the first place, Hauptmann?  Where is that scoundrel, hmm?  I want him brought in immediately so he may answer to my wrath!"  Klink picked up his leather crop and snapped it eagerly against his thigh, as he strode to the door of his office and threw it open.  The anteroom was empty. 

Puzzled, he looked back at the officer, still at attention.  Klink slowly circled back to stand in front of the Wehrmacht officer.  "Well, where is he?" he demanded impatiently. 

The captain cleared his throat uncertainly.  "Herr Kommandant, the prisoner was, uh, killed while trying to escape my custody."

Klink blanched.  His legs felt suddenly weak beneath him, and he leaned involuntarily back against the edge of the desk for support.

"What…what are you saying, Hauptmann?"  A blank, unbelieving look covered his face.

"Herr Oberst, we found him several kilometers from here while we were on patrol.  I believe he may have been responsible for blowing up a nearby railway bridge.  He tried to make his escape, but we chased him down."

Klink stared at the floor while listening uncomprehendingly to this account.  He slowly raised his head, a stony look on his face.

"Ah, I see, Hauptmann."  There was a sudden hard edge to Klink's voice.  "He was, I presume, shot in the back?"

Nonplussed, the officer stammered a reply.  "Of…of course, not, Herr Oberst.  It…it was an accident.  He ran from us.  I chased him, but just as I caught up with him he lost his footing and fell over the edge of an embankment.  It was…very steep…"  The captain's voice trailed off.

"But…but, how are you certain it was my prisoner, Hauptmann?"  Klink's face registered doubt mixed with a tinge of hope.

Wordlessly, the officer reached into a pouch on his belt and removed a piece of black material along with a pair of American dog tags.  He hesitantly held them out.  Without removing his eyes from the young officer's face, Klink took the items.  The woolen material unfolded into a knit cap, still heavy with dampness.  Of greater interest was the metal disk in his palm.  His right hand, shaking slightly, turned it over, as he read with dismay the name he dreaded would be there.  Klink's shoulders slumped.

"The, uh, prisoner was wearing these when he was captured, Herr Oberst.  Fortunately I retrieved them from him before…before he was lost."

The confirmation rang in Klink's ears.  Still resting in his palm, the imprint on the tags taunted him.  "_HOGAN ROBERT E_"

"Thank you, Herr Hauptmann, for returning these items."  Klink continued to stare at the objects in his hands.  "I will make certain your superiors hear of your commendable action."

Klink paused before looking intently at the captain.  "Of course, you realize you were mistaken in thinking Colonel Hogan had anything to do with that bridge.  I know for a fact he had planned his escape in advance.  He was simply unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"As you wish, Herr Kommandant."  The younger officer shrugged.  It made no difference to him whether the prisoner was involved in something more than just an escape.  He had died as a result of his rash actions, and in this case, the end very much justified the means.

He nodded, taking a step back, as he once again raised his arm in salute.  It did not pass his notice that the Kommandant failed to return the gesture.  Puzzled, he turned smartly on his heels and strode from the office.  

Klink, still stunned, slowly turned and picked up the receiver of his telephone.  He watched through the window as the vehicle, black as a hearse, turned around in the compound and headed out through the gates.  

"Sergeant Schultz…come to my office immediately."  Tears fell as the receiver dropped from his hand.

**Continued in Chapter Six**


	6. Wings of Daedalus Ch 6

**Chapter Six**

"Hey, Kinch."  Carter gestured apprehensively with a nod of his head toward the window.

Kinch craned his neck from where he sat on his bunk.  Two figures, one tall and thin and one corpulent, were moving across the compound directly for Barracks Two.  Klink distinctly did not appear happy.

"Okay, fellas, this is it.  Looks like the showdown is about to begin."

Kinch purposely settled back against the wall, trying to appear unconcerned.  He glanced at the others and hoped the last-minute coaching had stuck.  They'd worked out their stories, knowing full well it would be only a matter of time before the Kommandant confronted them in his search to unravel the mystery of Hogan's absence.

The door suddenly opened.  Expecting the usual bombastic entrance by the German officer, Kinch was taken aback.  Instead, Schultz slowly shuffled in followed by the Kommandant.  The officer entered solemnly, his head bowed.  Instead of a resounding "Achtung," Schultz stood silent, not wanting to look at the men he knew were anxiously studying him.  Kinch noted with alarm it appeared the German guard had been crying; his eyes were red-rimmed.  After a moment, Klink raised his eyes to look at the sergeant beside him and merely nodded his head.

Schultz spoke, his voice subdued.  "Kinchloe, Carter, Newkirk, and LeBeau, remain here.  All other prisoners, you are to exit to the compound."  

The German guard looked up once, briefly, before following the POWs out of the barracks.  His eyes caught the black airman's and expressed a flash of empathy.  Kinch felt his heart sink and wondered why, if they were all going to be shot, they weren't the ones herded out the door to be lined up against a wall.

Klink continued to stand just inside the door.  His shoulders appeared more stooped than normal, as though weighted with an unimaginable burden.  He finally lifted his head and spoke in a hushed voice.

"May I?" he asked, gesturing to the bench at the head of the table.

Kinch seemed unable to find his voice and merely nodded, trying to keep the panic under control that wanted to flood through him.

Removing his cap, Klink wearily settled himself on the bench.  He stared at the stained and scarred wooden surface before him and found himself realizing he had unconsciously selected Hogan's place at the table.  He wondered how many times the American officer had sat there, staring at this same surface, worrying about his men, agonizing over decisions, perhaps thinking of his family.  Coughing slightly to quell the emotion that suddenly wanted to rise in his throat, Klink reached into his overcoat pocket and found the metal tags.  His fist closed around them, the metal edge biting into his palm, as he struggled to keep his feelings in check.  Cautiously he removed his hand from the pocket and placed the contents with care on the table in front of him.  

All eyes stared at a soiled black knit cap, recognizing it as the sort Hogan had worn the evening before.  Newkirk was closest and noticed one rust-colored stain on the upturned cuff stood out from the rest.  With a shock he realized it was dried blood.  Klink next placed a set of American dog tags on top of the cap, fingering the chain and metal disks as he spoke.  His voice was barely above a whisper, and the men strained to hear his words.

"I received a visit today from a Wehrmacht officer.  He told me his patrol last evening discovered Colonel Hogan outside of camp.  They took these from him before…"  Klink paused to compose himself.  He cleared his throat nervously before slowly continuing.  "Before he was killed trying to escape."

LeBeau, outraged, began a verbal tirade at the Kommandant and had to be physically restrained by Carter and Newkirk.  His anger gave way to tears, as he continued his stream of invectives.  Klink closed his eyes and passively sat there, absorbing the abuse he felt he so rightly deserved.

"Wait a minute, fellas," Kinch quietly interjected.  "Kommandant, you look as though you have more you want to say."  He nodded tentatively at the officer, wondering how much he had discovered and whether the next order would be for their execution.

Klink looked up appreciatively at the enlisted man and blinked back the tears that had begun to form.

"Yes, I do, Sergeant," he began.  "I was told, and have no reason to believe otherwise, that Colonel Hogan was being taken into custody when he ran from them.  The patrol leader assured me they had every intention of taking him alive.  They gave chase.  The pursuit brought them to the edge of a steep embankment.  It was there that Colonel Hogan fell to his death."

Carter dissolved into tears, joining LeBeau who had been reduced to spasmodic sobs, his body shaking as he leaned forward on the edge of the table.  Klink wanted to reach out to console him but awkwardness restrained him.  These were not his men, he reminded himself.  He sat there instead, his head bowed.  After a moment, he raised his eyes, now watery, and addressed Kinch.

"I have a patrol on its way there now.  They will perform a search for Colonel Hogan's…"  Klink started to say "body," but caught himself.  "…for Colonel Hogan.  In the meantime, I assured the Wehrmacht officer that he was merely engaged in an escape attempt.  My official report will make no mention of a nearby bridge that was destroyed that same evening.  The coincidence is unfortunate, as is this entire incident.  I want you to know I wish I were bringing you other news.  I wish…"  Klink stopped, his voice quavering.  He closed his eyes once more, not wanting to look at the mournful faces around him.

Newkirk reached out, touching the German officer lightly on the shoulder.  "It's okay, guv'nor.  We know you feel as badly as we do.  We appreciate your giving us this news in private like this.  Gives us time to let it settle in a bit before we have to face the others.  Thanks, Kommandant."  Even LeBeau reluctantly showed his agreement.  They knew Klink could have been much colder and insensitive in how he informed them of the tragic news.  He had given them more consideration than they would have previously expected.

Clearly morose, Klink rose gradually from the table and turned to leave.  The closed door to the private room at the end of the barracks caught his eye.  Remembering another purpose for the visit, he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small box and letter.  He drew himself erect and turned to resignedly face the men once more.

"Sergeant Kinchloe."

Confused, Kinch realized the form of address was an implied order.  Klink had yet to say anything about the consequences of Hogan's "escape" on the men who remained.  Kinch crossed the room, his steps deliberate, and came to attention directly in front of the Kommandant.  Drawing his powerful shoulders back, he stood there stoically to hear the anticipated punishment.  A glint off something metallic caused him to glance down at the small box Klink held open.  Two shiny gold bars lay nestled in a satin cushion.  Kinch looked questioningly at the other men, wondering what this all meant.  They looked equally bewildered.

The German colonel cleared his throat.  "I have an official letter that I must read to all of you."  He held the paper out at arms length, the moistness in his eyes blurring his vision.  "It begins, 'By order of the Secretary of War, be it hereby known that James Ivan Kinchloe, United States Army Air Corps, has been promoted effective immediately to the rank of Second Lieutenant.'  The letter is signed, 'Harry L. Stimson.'"

Klink looked up at the staggered American before him.  The black man's face conveyed a mixture of emotions, still visibly tinged with grief.  

"Sergeant Kinchloe," Klink began before correcting himself, haltingly, "I mean, Lieutenant Kinchloe…I so very much wish this was under…better circumstances.  I know you would have preferred…to have Colonel Hogan here.  I'm sorry it had to be…"

Kinch interrupted, shaking his head sympathetically.  "It's okay, Kommandant.  I know you mean that sincerely."  

Klink hesitated before removing one of the gold bars from the cushion.  "Lieutenant, would you allow me the honor?"  He looked searchingly at the tall black man.

The American nodded somberly.  "I would consider it a privilege, Kommandant," he spoke softly.

Klink reached up, carefully pinning the bar in proper position on the lapel of Kinch's uniform.  Closing the box gently, he drew himself up and took a step back before raising his arm in perfect salute.  Kinch noted he touched the visor of his cap, American style, forgoing the German gesture.  He slowly returned the salute, the scene still surreal around him.

Turning to address the other men, Klink spoke, his voice consoling.  "I will leave you men for now.  I imagine you want to be alone."  He turned next to Kinch.  "If you need anything…anything at all, you know where to find me.  My door is open to you, Lieutenant."

Kinch was unable to find words in reply.

The Kommandant slowly left the room, closing the barracks door quietly behind him.  The others hesitantly grouped around Kinch, staring uncertainly at the letter he had been handed.  

Newkirk started to speak, but Kinch raised a hand to silence him.  His voice trembled.

"Before anyone says anything, I want to make two things clear.  Don't anybody congratulate me, not after what happened."  Kinch hung his head momentarily.  "And I'm still just Kinch, got it?"

"We understand, mate.  We'd all feel the same way."  Newkirk paused before glancing at the others.  "But I just want to say I'd rather have you in charge right now than anyone else, Kinch.  You deserve this."  He stuck out his hand, more in comfort than celebration.

Kinch gratefully took the proffered hand.  "I promise you all I'll try my hardest to keep this mission going.  I don't expect to live up to the Colonel's standards, but…"  His voice trailed off.

"You'll do fine, Kinch.  I know Colonel Hogan would be proud of you.  We all are, too."

"Thanks, fellas."  Kinch tried clearing the lump in his throat.  "Only it just doesn't feel right without him here to share in this."

He glanced over at the table where the black knit cap and dog tags remained.  Instinctively, in a gesture he unconsciously acquired from the man he so much admired, he slipped his arm around Newkirk's shoulders.  The others stepped in to complete the circle.  Their spirit would somehow remain unbroken.  Determination rose to temper their grief.  They would carry on the work that meant so much to their fallen leader.  It was the least they could do to honor his memory.  It was the least they could do to make certain his identity was never forgotten.

**Continued in Chapter Seven**


	7. Wings of Daedalus Ch 7

**Chapter Seven**

The tangled smoldering remnants of a bridge took on a golden glow, as the sun's rays slowly stole over the horizon. Nearby, a motionless form lay half-submerged at the edge of a swollen river. Swift brown waters swirled through a dark mop of matted hair and swept over the waterlogged body, threatening to carry him along with them.

Suddenly a broken tree limb rushed past caroming off his shoulders. The senseless figure issued a low moan from deep within. A gurgled breath expulsed a stream of water from his bloodied mouth. Choking, the man rolled partly onto one side and tried to catch a gulp of air that didn't make his lungs burn. One eye slowly squinted open against a morning sun that seemed excruciatingly bright; the other was swollen shut encased in a dark purplish bruise.

The scene blurred and wavered, as his vision tried to focus. A few trees, then water came into view. Nothing about the surroundings was familiar to him. Something was dreadfully wrong, but the cloud of confusion refused to lift. He became aware only by the sound of water lapping against his chest that he lay partly submerged. The current swaddled him in numbing cold, and he could not feel his legs. He vaguely sensed he was restricted in his movements but failed to realize his arms were tied. Had he seen his battered face and torso, he might have been grateful for the river's anesthetizing effect. Gradually, as awareness returned, he began to experience a torment that rippled through his body with each movement.

Steeling himself against the breath-robbing pain, he slowly brought his knees up under his chest. The muddy bank sucked at his limbs, only grudgingly releasing him from its grasp. He inched up the Himalayan incline, every movement agonizing. Several times he lost ground, sliding helplessly back toward the river's edge, the failure frustrating him to near tears. Gasping with the effort, he finally mounted the bank and carefully rolled away from its lip. He propped a sore shoulder against the trunk of a nearby tree and fulcrumed his way shakily to his feet. His bruised cheek scraped against the rough bark, as he paused to rest.

His breathing steadily became less labored. After several moments he weakly pushed away and began to stagger ahead. What little awareness he had still brought no recognition of his whereabouts. His instincts, however, were very much intact. Without knowing exactly why, he realized to remain there could be hazardous. He stumbled forward, mechanically trailing the narrow strip of ground that flanked the river and provided the solitary guide for his steps.

Remaining upright was a never-ending battle. Every time he fell, the impact sent waves of anguish avalanching over his entire body. With each collapse he lay crumpled against the sodden earth for longer and longer periods. Once again, he suddenly found himself lying on the ground. Turning gingerly onto one side, he noticed a growing band of scavengers watching from where they circled overhead. The sun beat down, taunting him, as the dark shapes glided in lazy arcs across the blazing sky. Delirious, he felt the ravenous longing in their burning black eyes. He forced himself to blink, unsteadily willing the sensation away. Summoning his flagging energy he once more began the ceaseless struggle to upright himself.

HH HH HH

The horse's saucer-like eyes blinked anxiously, its yellowed molars grinding intently against a metal bit. The ears were plastered against its broad head as it turned to look behind.

"Giddup now," the man urged, trying to coax the sway-backed horse to maneuver the creaking bridge.

It was the same challenge as usual. The roan balked whenever asked to pull the wagon across the rickety structure. Frustrated, the man glanced at the blond woman beside him who was trying to conceal obvious signs of amusement behind a shielding hand. He gave the reins a more commanding slap.

"Hey, now, giddup!"

The horse looked back again, its tail swishing impassively.

"Perhaps it would help if Erik and I got down from the wagon?" the woman asked, trying to be helpful.

He shrugged indifferently. The horse had a mind of its own, and he doubted their easing the load would make much difference.

"If you want to, Marise."

Smiling good-naturedly, she carefully alighted from the front bench seat before reaching up to help a young boy sitting between them. A slight, frail-looking child, he silently slipped his small hand inside hers. They walked together across the bridge that was barely wider than a footpath. The creaking behind them signaled the reluctant horse had finally followed, the bridge straining beneath the weight of the oaken cart. The woman looked back, laughing silently at the man atop the wagon who rolled his eyes in annoyance at the horse's obstinacy.

He pulled the cart alongside the two figures and extended a hand to help her back up. She shook her head, the golden strands of hair that had worked their way loose from the bun at the back of her head shimmering in the light.

"It feels good to walk for a while," she replied.

The day was turning out to be nicer than initially anticipated. They'd had a damp start for their early morning return from the market. But now the sun was re-warming the earth and drying the shrinking puddles the boy aimed for with each lunging step. The woman slowly arched her back, thankful for the brief respite from the jolts of the wagon's hard bench seat. A tug on her skirt caused her to look down expectantly at her son.

"What is it, Erik?"

He pointed wordlessly at the sky and the dark shapes that were tracing slow circular paths above.

Shading the bright sun from her eyes with one hand, she peered at the creatures.

"They're just birds."

She glanced quizzically at her son, wondering at the reason for his peculiar fascination. His dark blue eyes stared back up at her, the curiosity in them unabated. She appealed mutely to the red-haired man still atop the wagon. He followed the boy's gaze, his bearded face briefly registering a look of unease.

"Not just birds. They're vultures."

The boy's eyes continued to pose a silent query.

Still grasping the reins, the man slipped off the cart and walked to where the pair stood. Bending to one knee, he looked attentively into the boy's eyes.

"It's all right, Erik," he began carefully. "There's just an animal in the woods ready to..."

Clearing his throat, he glanced uncertainly at Marise. She nodded for him to continue.

"…ready to die because it…is very old. The birds won't hurt us. They're only interested in whatever it is out there that will give them a chance to eat."

In an intentional distraction he patted the boy reassuringly on his shoulder and pointed ahead on the path.

"Want to see who can pick the biggest bouquet of flowers for your mother?" he asked, the tanned skin lining his sea-green eyes crinkling in a grin, as he rose to his feet.

Smiling shyly in return, Erik nodded, his face momentarily as carefree as any normal eight-year-old in a more peaceful world. He began to skip ahead on the path, crossing from side to side each time he spied a colorful patch.

Handing over the reins with affected nonchalance, the man grinned at the woman beside him.

"He's all yours, Marise."

He glared at the horse watching him with one sideways eye from where it nibbled impassively at tall grasses sprouting along the edge of the road.

"Behave yourself," he ordered the roan.

Marise laughed, her eyes sparkling.

"Better get moving, Jan," she chided amicably. "Erik has quite a lead on you."

She nodded in the boy's direction. His small fist was tightly clenched around a growing bouquet of wildflowers generously interspersed with weeds that appeared to him even more handsome offerings.

HH HH HH

Hogan stumbled along numbly. The river had long ago branched off, narrowing to pass through a stone culvert beneath a dirt road. The gentle incline to the road presented an almost insurmountable barrier, but he finally managed to summit it, staggering down the path. His head seemed oddly hot and heavy, as though several times its normal size, and resonated with an incessant distracting hum. The disabling loss of his arms inexplicably continued, but he barely took notice.

He tried licking his cracked lips, but his tongue felt swollen and dry. He was tormented by the fading memory of the river, regretful that he had not quenched his thirst before leaving it behind. His heavy-lidded eyes caught hold of a reflection from a shallow ditch that paralleled the road. There, cupped in the ground, was a meager offering of rainwater. His legs, shaking with fatigue and raw nerves, barely carried him to the puddle's edge. He fell to his knees, leaning forward, but the murky liquid remained out of reach. Collapsing onto one side, he extended himself until his face felt wetness, and he greedily drank from the brackish pool.

It was only moments before the inevitable spasms wracked his exhausted body. Any remaining strength was sapped by the forceful retching. Drained and feverish, he finally gave in to the blackness that longed to enshroud him.

HH HH HH

"Jan, when we get home why don't we…"

Marise's face blanched, as her voice trailed off mid-sentence. They'd rounded a bend in the road to find Erik statue-like by the side of a shallow ditch. He was trembling uncontrollably, and the bouquet of wildflowers lay broken and scattered at his feet. His eyes were riveted unseeing on a mud-caked form collapsed on the ground.

Her heart pounding in her chest, Marise raced to Erik's side. One arm cradled him against her shaking legs. She reached out imploringly with the other as Jan cautiously approached the misshapen figure. A puzzled look swept across his face. It took several seconds to determine it was a human body. The figure appeared to be dressed all in black, making the victim's darkly mottled hands, oddly cupped behind his back, almost indistinguishable from the clothing. Jan bent down, peering with guarded curiosity, and noticed with a start the hands and forearms were tightly bound with rope. He suddenly realized the restraints added to his own uneasiness. Jan glanced around quickly, listening for others. A grim expression on his face, he wedged one boot beneath the body and tried pushing it over on its back. He dreaded what he might find.

Marise bit back a shriek, as the form groaned and then feebly attempted to move.

"Mig God, han er skønt levende!"

Startled, Jan sucked in his breath and then swallowed hard. Marise was right; he was alive, but only barely. Given the man's evident condition he almost wished he had instead found him dead. He knelt down and grasped the shoulders with his broad hands to gently roll him over. Strands of black matted hair were plastered across an unfamiliar face. Even the thick streaks of mud and dried blood were unable to conceal the severe bruises and lacerations it bore. Clad all in black, the man's clothes looked to be coated with silt that had begun to dry to a shimmering patina. Jan felt the dampness still clinging to the fabric and realized he had been dragged through water or submerged.

His fingers found a thready pulse after several seconds of searching. Jan looked up and shook his head.

"I don't think he's going to make it, Marise."

Marise darted a look in both directions of the road. She, too, was aware his state signaled possible danger. Her eyes closed for a moment, as though seeking guidance for her decision. Taking a deep breath, she spoke, a firm conviction strengthening her voice.

"We can't leave him here."

"Er du halvtosset?"

She shook her head. "No, I'm not crazy. I don't care what trouble he's gotten himself into, not even an animal deserves to be left to die in a ditch."

Jan was more than familiar with that edge to her voice. He knew there would be no arguing with her. Begrudgingly, he nodded, though his eyes worriedly gestured toward the small boy whose face was still buried in the folds of her skirt. Marise silently indicated her understanding. She knelt down, taking the boy's pallid face in her hands.

"Erik, you have to be a grown boy for me now. There's something I need you to do."

Wiping his tear-stained cheeks with the back of one hand, the boy nodded hesitantly. Marise led him slowly to the nearby wagon. She knelt down, grasping him under his arms and lifted him with a grunt onto the front bench seat. Placing the reins in his hands, she looked him firmly in the eyes.

"It's very important you not let go of these reins. We want to make sure the cart does not move while we load something into the back. Lave jer opfatte?"

Gulping a breath, Erik nodded again. Marise smiled comfortingly.

"That's my boy."

Her hand tousled his sand-colored hair.

"Don't forget. Keep your eyes on the horse so he doesn't move."

Marise turned away, quickly rejoining Jan by the man's side.

"Erik will be distracted for a while," she whispered, surveying the body. "Don't you think we should cut those ropes first?"

Jan looked taken aback and stared, open-eyed, at her.

"Marise, don't you realize those might mean he's a criminal? What if he's dangerous?"

Sighing, Marise rolled her eyes in exasperation.

"Well, if he is, he certainly doesn't look to be in a condition to cause us any harm now, does he?"

Reluctantly, Jan agreed. Marise appeared to be right once again. He rose to his feet and grimly walked toward the wagon's bed. Throwing back a stained oil cloth, he rummaged through a wooden box. Returning to the figure's side, Jan glanced at Marise before turning him face down once more, knife in hand. The man groaned again, this time more weakly than before. Fearful of causing further pain, Jan carefully worked the knife's tip beneath the strands of rope. The wrists were bound so tightly he wasn't sure at first he could sever the bindings without cutting into him. Slowly a frayed section separated, freeing the arms that rolled lifelessly to the body's side. The braided strands still clung to the swollen and inflamed flesh around his wrists. Marise gasped.

"We'll have to leave them for now," Jan said. "It will take some effort to remove that rope without causing more injury."

Marise nodded her agreement. Handing her the knife, Jan carefully grasped the man under his arms, raising his torso off the ground. He slowly dragged him, heels grinding against the dirt, toward the back of the wagon. Huffing with the effort, Jan paused for a moment before shouldering the body onto the wagon bed. Marise watched anxiously from the bench seat where she had joined Erik, still tightly clutching the reins. She noticed the man had stopped responding to their touch. An intent scan finally detected his ribs rising in a slow, shallow rhythm. Jan looked at her with a dismal expression, as he drew the oil cloth over the body, concealing it from view.

"I hope this is worth the trouble," he said skeptically, stepping on board the wagon that rocked in protest.

She hesitated. She wasn't sure it was. But something refused to let her ignore this stranger's plight. Too many people were turning a blind eye to the events around them. It was the reason they found themselves in this predicament in the first place. She wouldn't be a party to further apathy, regardless of the consequences.

"Jan Ernest, if others had felt it was worth the trouble perhaps Henrik would not have been returned to us in the condition he was in." Her voice trembled.

He hung his head guiltily. "Sorry, Marise. I didn't mean…"

She touched his arm gently. "I know you didn't, Jan. Never mind."

Marise smiled at him understandingly. "Just get us home safely. We can deal with things there."

Jan slapped the reins against the horse's chestnut-dappled back. The cart creaked its way along the path, carrying their disturbing cargo.

**Continued in Chapter Eight**

_Author's Note: My apologies for taking so terribly long to update this story. Thank you all for your patience and continued interest in one very soggy POW. The muse of inspiration seems to be finally whispering in my ear, and I hope to be able to post more regular progress on this tale!_


	8. Wings of Daedalus Ch 8

**Chapter Eight**

The heavy wooden gates swung slowly open, the creaking of their metal hinges cutting through the thin early morning air. Measured columns of men processed somberly through the front gates to what would otherwise have been freedom. It did not escape their notice that a discrete line of rifle-toting guards were strategically positioned between them and the edge of the surrounding woods. Freedom was still only an illusion.

The prisoners wore an ersatz assortment of clothing. None of them had seen a proper set of dress uniforms since they'd been held captive. But for this occasion they did their best to assemble what they hoped would seem properly respectful attire. There was a solemn dignity to their appearance, despite their tattered garments.

A tall black airman, a gold bar glinting from his collar, crisply called cadence in a low, sonorous voice, as he led the march. The columns executed a precise half turn and halted before a freshly-painted white cross embedded in the dirt. The men stood silent, waiting anxiously, the only sound the soft fluttering of a flag borne atop a standard at the head of the column. The flag's horizontal stripes were a hodgepodge of various shades of crimson, none of which quite matched. It was the best they could do in fashioning a replica of their country's symbol for this gloomy occasion.

Standing in the front row, Carter looked dejected, his white-knuckled hands gripping a dilapidated brass trumpet they'd once received from the Red Cross. He'd spent hours polishing its finish, rubbing tirelessly at the rusty and dented surface as if preparing for inspection. LeBeau, chin jutting defiantly forward, stood as tall as he could muster. His beret was placed at a more of a tilt than normal, and he forced himself to blink several times to keep his eyes from filling with tears. Newkirk alternated between shuffling his feet and hooking his thumbs in the corners of his front pockets. His nicotine-dependent bloodstream screamed at him for a cigarette, and he yearned to light up to ease his apprehension.

A tall Oberst in gray overcoat scanned the formation from inside the barbed-wire enclosure ringing the camp. The fence separating him from the prisoners failed to hide the searing looks of hatred on their faces. Klink knew they blamed him. He turned his glance away to the American crush cap dangling from the crossbar of the wooden cross and swallowed hard. It sat at the same jaunty angle as when Hogan had insolently tossed his cap over the Pickelhaub's spike on his desk. He'd give anything at that moment to be able to see Hogan again. If only he'd known ahead of time of Hogan's intentions and somehow been able to stop him. It would have been the cheeriest cooler sentence he'd ever handed out, if only he had had the chance. His body stooped with sadness and regret, Klink turned away, unable to watch the proceedings.

Squaring his broad shoulders, Kinch surveyed the proud men before him. It took several tries before he found his voice.

"We're here today to honor the memory of someone who meant a great deal to all of us. More than I could probably ever find words to say."

Halting to clear his throat, Kinch forced himself to look out over the sea of disconsolate faces.

"Some of us were fortunate to have served under Colonel Hogan when he was commander of the 504th. Some of us didn't get to meet him until circumstances landed us here. Circumstances that would have been far worse, if not for the Colonel's stewardship. Whether we recognized it or not, he made life a lot more bearable for us. The burden he carried as our Senior POW Officer was extraordinarily heavy, but he accepted it without complaint. He was always there for us. He was there every time we waited nervously for a baby to be born to a family back home, every time the strain of separation caused a marriage to dissolve, and every time a parent, alone in their heartbreak and worry, passed on."

A choked sound issued from the rear of the formation. No one moved.

"He cried with us, prayed with us, and was always there to provide encouragement. There wasn't a problem or trouble any of us ever dealt with that he didn't somehow know about. And when he did, he made sure we knew we could go to him at any time, day or night, to relieve that distress. He not only carried his own unspoken yoke, but he gladly carried ours as well. We knew him as commander, we knew him as senior POW, we knew him as brother, as father, as friend."

Kinch paused. A wry, sad smile eased across his face, as he shook his head. "But somehow I wonder if any of us really ever knew him?"

His voice began to crack. "Did any of us ever know about the Colonel's family, his problems, his troubles? No. We didn't because he didn't want us to worry about anything else. That was the kind of guy he was. He was selfless, he was dedicated, he was compassionate, and he motivated me to be more of a man as a result. There's no greater gift someone can give to others than to set before them an ideal, a vision of being capable of doing more than they otherwise would have thought possible with their life."

Several heads nodded remorsefully.

"And none of us should ever forget him. His memory will live on in all of us, even as we someday get to leave this camp and go back home. And when we do, there will be a portion of each of us that will have changed, that will have become stronger, that will have become better. For that we owe him a debt of gratitude we'll never get to repay."

Kinch turned, taking in the wooden cross that stood beside him. "Rest in peace, Colonel Hogan. Rest in peace, my friend."

His voice finally failing him, Kinch bowed his head in sorrow. He struggled to maintain his composure, aware the formation now looked to him for direction. Taking a deep breath, he slowly raised his head and nodded to Carter, who raised a shining trumpet to his lips. Three notes issued forth, clear and true, piercing the quiet. A pause, then another three notes that rose to a somber refrain. The notes rang through the countryside, echoing the mournful loneliness inside each man's heart. The refrain complete, Carter lowered the trumpet, his hands trembling with emotion. In unison, the formation came to attention and wordlessly paraded back through the gates.

Klink watched as the men passed silently before him. Taking a deep, ragged, breath, he turned away.

"They hate me, Schultz."

"Oh, no, Herr Kommandant. The men, they are just sad."

Klink shook his head. "No, Schultz, they blame me for Colonel Hogan's death. I can see it in their eyes."

"But, Herr Kommandant, it was not your fault. They know you could not have helped what happened."

The large man looked distressed. Not only was his heart heavy with the loss of a friend, but now added to that weight was the concern that his superior officer felt responsible. He turned to face the cross, his voice softening.

"Besides, Herr Kommandant, he now is free."

Klink nodded ruefully. "Yes, he is, Schultz." Grasping his swagger stick more tightly than before, the German officer began to walk slowly away. "He's the only one free."

**Continued in Chapter Nine**


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